Letters
by Merilsell
Summary: "I will write you every day, love." She has laughed and joked at the time about how he has no means to send letters to her, about how terribly romantic he still is after ten years at her side. But secretly she has loved this thought. It keeps her going on with her lonely, risky journey with unpredictable outcome.-A Warden!Alistair/F!Warden stream of conscious-story, set in DA:I.


_**A/N:** Because Warden!Alistair needs more stories, and happy ones in particular. The Warden here is left deliberately non-descriptive, so it works for every origin (I chose just one origin per race in the character selection, since there is no general Warden as character there.) Slight liberties taken with canon and its order, because I can. For the people reading my story-monster: The next chapter of OEaH will take some time to write still, I fear, so enjoy this, at least?_

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**Letters**

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In the night before the Warden leaves, Alistair makes one final, desperate attempt to persuade her to _wait_.

He know it is selfish of him, since she had poured all her effort in researching the effects of The Calling in the past years, and there is a promising rumor of a way to cure them _both_ – all Wardens –from its bad side-effects, that cannot wait. But it would mean to travel deep into the west, and to part with her for a very long time, without knowing when or _if _(his heart twisted, the thought is too much) he would ever see her again.

It is not that he doesn't trust her judgment, nor abilities, _no_. She is the most capable and wonderful woman he has ever met; bright, fierce and beautiful and – (how can someone like _her_ even love someone like _him_?) unfortunately equal as stubborn. She wants to go and he can't come with her for too many logical reasons that he hates more and more with every passing moment. To be without her _is_ the gist of his problem, but not all by far. It is the uncertainty of it all, success and danger, that keeps him wavering, hesitating, where support and encouragement should be in its place instead. After all, they had done more with less before, and she had a way to work wonders, to make them reality. She had proven this time and time again; With ending the Blight, rebuilding the Wardens in Ferelden, saving Amarathine, and hundreds of little ones more the following years. He knows this, all facts and rationality speak for the departure to be needed _now_, for it to be promising and _good_.

His heart, however, is an entirely different beast. It roars with old fears thought long forgotten, for her to go where he can't follow, to be left behind, _alone_. He doesn't want this, cannot lose her. Not her, _never_ her. Stubborn as she is, it is pointless to argue with her, of course. Deep down, he is aware of the futility of persuading her to stay, and yet he _tries_. In this night a stream of tearful words echoes incessantly through Amaranthine Keep, waking the other Wardens with their volume and sheer desperation. Once his throat is too raw to yell – so much like his heart – he murmurs litanies of "_I love you_ and '_stay_' instead, until there is nothing more to say and they pass out in each other's arms.

Before the arrival of dawn, the Warden presses one last kiss on his forehead, feather-light and soft as not to wake him, and slips first out of their bed, then out of door. Her backpack and weapon shouldered she leaves, her distancing steps from Alistair heavy but determinate, with purpose. She will not give up, not until she has found the cure for the Calling. Not until she has made the impossible possible once more;

More years together, with him.

Soon, familiar lands vanishes behind her, traded for unknown, wild terrain. Yet one promise given follows her all the way to her goal: "I will write you every day, love." She has laughed and joked at the time about how he has no means to send letters to her, about how terribly romantic he still is after ten years at her side. But secretly she has loved this thought. It keeps her going on her lonely, risky journey with unpredictable outcome.

Days turn weeks, turn months without her at his side. Alistair has his own troubles, of course. There is the matter of his Warden recruits – fresh from the Joining – suddenly acting strange. In one moment they are joking, and at another at each other's throats all the sudden. Soon, far too soon, he experiences the reason for their odd behavior himself. He is ripped out of slumber at night by a song playing way too loud in his head, its sound jarring and yet so beautiful, tempting him to listen. He knows what it is, what it _means_ in an instant. The impossibility of _this_ already happening, renders him momentarily frozen with terror, while the song continues to beckon and taunts him. Why? It made no sense, for it had been only ten years. Not now, too soon, _far_ too soon. Heart racing and wide-eyed, his first impulse is to reach for the pillow next to him, but she is not there, not there, _not there. _Now where he needs her, his –_their_– bed is devoid of her body's warmth and comforting presence, and had been this way for countless, endless nights.

The thought of being without her in the end, of her being too late for any return or reunion, leaves Alistair shaking and breathless for air. So instead he claws at another, more feeble thought within his racing mind clouded by that bleak tune, at any resemblance of sanity possible. Willing himself to calm down, he reaches for parchment and ink in the half-dark, ever so close to his bed these days. At first, the quill scratches awkwardly over paper without forming words – he shakes too much – but then he manages the first, and it _helps_. Slowly but sure the song and terror fades into background with each more word, with his focus on writing her, like he did on every other day. In the end, he hasn't managed much coherence beside to write 'I miss you, I miss you, _I miss you_" again and again on the page, but keeping his promise made to her is more important, always will. He dates the letter and carefully, like a treasure, stows it away, in the same place where many other pages already awaits its company. It's foolish, perhaps, yet all he has at the moment, and the thought of giving all of these to his love one day, to see her again, helps too. It is a song of its own, but one that comforts instead to frighten him.

Alistair has not time to write every day. Between forming a plan with his Wardens against the false Calling, being branded a traitor (again) and hunted by Orlais' Wardens for standing up against their plan of blood magic, there simply isn't much possibility to sit down for a letter. And yet he tries. Parchment and ink are his most precious possession and companion in these days, something he does trade every last copper for. To be able to keep his promise to her is worth it. And so in every free minute and moment, within the too empty chambers of Amaranthine Keep, the cold, dank cavern of his hideout, or later enveloped in the chatter of people in Skyhold's tavern, he _writes_.

For every day he misses, he writes one letter more. Sometimes it's just brief, nonsensical things he brings down to paper. About the oddities of Orlais – even the _cheese_ is fancy here – or the awful smell of his dank whereabouts. Most the time however, he writes about her. About their first meeting in Ostagar and their first kiss in camp so many years ago, or her smile that could rival the sun. How the Wardens simply aren't the same without her – how _he_ isn't the same without her at his side. In too many lonely nights, he wonders if she is safe, wherever she is on her dangerous travels right now, and prays she _is_. Alistair has never been a very pious man, but in moments like this he finds himself down on his knees, begging the Maker to let her return to him. Please, please, _please_.

He cannot lose her.

Now where the Wardens have turned on him, she is all that he has left. She _and_his duty, of course, and he tries so hard to fulfill it like he always does, but it is hard. Facing the other Wardens in battle at the Inquisitor's side is _wrong _andbrutally shakes everything he has prior believed in. He does it anyway and cuts down the people –maddened by Corypheus' thrall– he has called brethren before, one by one. Under different circumstances, his Warden could have even been under them, but he has no time to stop to appreciate her stubbornness preventing such a cruel fate –fade-walking and demon-fighting as he is with the Inquisitor and Hawke. He has always worried about her safety in these past months and every single moment, though in the end it is almost _him_, who is not returning to her. The irony of it doesn't fail his notice, cuts even through the relief of being still alive and the subsequent guilt of feeling this way, when Hawke was far less fortunate, and stayed behind. He writes it all down later, when they are back in camp, safe and in a world not made of fog and demons.

As focused he is on writing her every day, _her_ letter addressed to him comes as a surprise. One that comes with giddiness about hearing from her, and the breathless, sharp realization of _missing her, _sinking like thousand cuts into his skin. He chooses to read her message in the seclusion of his room in Skyhold, far away from curious eyes and questions about the Blight a century ago. It doesn't matter anyway, not any longer. Only the fact of her being alive and found by the Inquisition does. With trembling hands and racing heart he unfolds the rough paper – his piece of home and future, and reads. Each word of hers is an antidote and healing spell alike for the difficult times lived the past months. She is close to achieving her goal, (he should have expected that, really) which also means closer to returning to him. As much as he misses her, this is a thought and news that let him sleep better at night. He carefully folds her letter again, and keeps it in a pocket – close to his heart, like her.

Alistair is stalling to leave toward Weisshaupt for weeks now. His injuries from the battle within Adamant fortress are long since healed and there is no good or sensible reason for him to stay any longer in Skyhold. And still he lingers in the hope of a reunion with her, of being able to travel together, like they always did in the years before her long absence. A foolish hope perhaps, since her letter contains no exact date of her return, no matter how often he reads it. He waits until the day turns into night, but as feared, she doesn't appear. So there is no choice for him but to pack his few belongings for his departure the next morning. It is time for him to lead the remaining Wardens back to Weisshaupt. She would do the same in in his place, he knows, and yet sleep doesn't come easy to him this night.

Later, he is lost to the fade as it was meant to be; _dreaming_ instead of wandering through it in person, when the mattress shifts under another weight that _isn't_ him. Still caught somewhere in between dream and reality, he remains motionless and silent, wages his options and the position of his weapon. He always keeps it in reach and could grasp it quickly before the intruder makes their other move. His hand reaches out for his sword, confident to find it in its place, but the person already hovers over him, their weight pressing into him in an too intimate way. Alarmed his eyes snap open, just in time to feel their lips upon his, warm like rays of morning light tickling his skin. The figure above him is raven black and darkness covers all around him, yet they – _she_ – sets everything alight by their – _her_– laughter through tears. He _knows_ its sound, would recognize it everywhere in the world, from the tops of Frostback Mountain to the furthest corner of the Black City.

_She _is here_._

Slipped into his room in the middle of night like a thief, smelling of mud and sweat. She is here, and one kiss become a dozen, his tears mingling with hers, accompanied by the sound of their laughter of mutual disbelief and joy. She is here, and months of worrying and hardship dissipate, by her miracle made true anew, her return. She is here, and everything else melts away, there in her arms and the feel of skin upon skin, rediscovered.

Alistair does not leave toward Weisshaupt the next morning, nor does he leave the bed. With the future renewed and curled up next to him in his arms, haste has lost all meaning. What is a day more or two of leisure, when she already holds the solution to all of their problems in her clever hands, like always? They have lost months to catch up and too many lonely nights to erase as well. It reminds him on something he has already stowed away for travel, his biggest treasure and most valuable possession. Under her curious eyes he slips out of the cocoon made out of blankets and body heat, and walks over to his pack. He returns with an enormous, bundled stack of letters –nearly a book on its own in thickness– and hands it to her.

"What's this?" she asks as she stares at it, brows creasing in the way like they always do when she is confused.

"I made you a promise, remember?"

She does, of course. Sniffling, her eyes fill with tears, and her arms wrap around him for an embrace. "Can we read them together?"

Alistair nods, and his lips curl into a smile against her throat. Yes, together. _Together_ is all that counts.

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_**A/N²:** Okay, I cheated a bit in the end, since afaik stream of consciousness normally doesn't contain dialogue, but w/e. At least I have written something else beside OEaH, for once. So yay? Reviews are, as always, welcome. _


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